


Whys and Hows and Maybes

by Taimat



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, But only a little, Caretaking, Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Tries His Best, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kisses, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Part-Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, Wiedźmin | The Witcher-Typical Bathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28744761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taimat/pseuds/Taimat
Summary: Part of Geralt’s core rails at the very thought of needing anyone, because that’s not how things are supposed to be, but it makes the matter no less true.He needs Jaskier. Not for his music or his social skills or, gods forbid, any sort of fighting aptitude. No, he needs him because Jaskier just...is. And it seems that Geralt can no more stop himself from needing Jaskier than he can stop the sun from rising. (He knows. He’s tried to quash the feeling time and again. He always fails.)Which brings him back to the present moment. Watching Jaskier play and...and wanting.The question is, should he let Jaskier know?And Geralt wonders. And thinks. About whys and hows and maybes.Maybe.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 43
Kudos: 370
Collections: Best Geralt





	Whys and Hows and Maybes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello! And welcome to my first fic for this fandom. (I’ve been too scared to write until now because I’ve been terrified I’ll get their characterizations all wrong, but well...I just had to get this out.) Please be gentle?
> 
> This is something of a character study, and also the softest thing I’ve written in a while. It was inspired by [that T-shirt meme](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/ErdqhQrVkAMiyMO?format=jpg&name=medium) that reads, “I am going to punch you in the mouth with my own mouth softly because I like you.” I saw Geralt, and I ran with it.
> 
> Thank you so much to [Clockworkbyrde](https://twitter.com/clockworkbyrde) for the beta read and cheering on, and to [Purrito](https://twitter.com/gerritoofrivia) for their being my sounding board and nudging me into this fandom in the first place.
> 
> This fic now includes artwork by the marvelous [Aivelin](https://twitter.com/Aiverin)! You'll find it embedded in the text, in its proper location~ It's probably SFW, as there is no visible genitalia, but there is bathing and mild nudity, so be forewarned if you're reading in public!
> 
> (Also, if you are 18+ and love to talk Witcher and other fandoms with great people, consider joining the [Feral Bards Discord](https://discord.gg/vkVaHau)! Let us love you!)

It’s not often that Geralt takes the time to really listen to Jaskier play. To focus. Usually, he’s trying to pick up any rumors that might be flying within earshot and always keeping watch for danger, even when they stop for a rest in taverns and inns.

Maybe there’s something in the air tonight. Maybe he’s in an unusual mood. But for whatever reason, he finds himself enraptured by the way Jaskier’s pearly teeth glint in the light when he smiles. On the sonorous timbre of Jaskier’s voice. On the way, if he fixates hard enough, he can actually see Jaskier’s throat resonating with sound. On the way those long fingers dance up and down the neck of his lute, as merry as the tune he’s chosen to sing in this moment.

And Geralt wonders. And thinks. About whys and hows and maybes.

Maybe.

~~~~~~~

It happens again when they’re camping under the starlight, bedrolls laid out already. It’s too dark to have continued traveling safely, at least for Jaskier, but it’s apparently too early for the other man to consider falling asleep, because here he sits, humming idly and plucking out a new tune on his lute. It isn’t one Geralt’s heard before — he would recognize it if it were.

Jaskier is always moving. Always shifting. Like a dust mote caught in a sunbeam, he’s there and then isn’t, sometimes close enough that you’re forced to blink away before floating out of reach again. In Geralt’s eyes, he seems to fall in and out of relationships just as easily. Never tied down. Never staying.

And if anything could make him stay…

If any _one_ could make him stay…

Geralt isn’t an idiot. He knows that, to have the bard by his side for nigh on decades despite his best attempts (both intentional and not) to drive him away, that means something.

But what? That’s what he’s unsure about.

What does Jaskier want? Need? Deserve?

He knows that he usually takes the other man for granted. Or at least, he has in the past. (He’s been trying to get better about that.)

But what if he didn’t? What if Jaskier knew that he was wanted? Valuable? Needed?

Part of Geralt’s core rails at the very thought of needing anyone, because that’s not how things are supposed to be, but it makes the matter no less true.

He needs Jaskier. Not for his music or his social skills or, gods forbid, any sort of fighting aptitude. No, he needs him because Jaskier just...is. And it seems that Geralt can no more stop himself from needing Jaskier than he can stop the sun from rising. (He knows. He’s tried to quash the feeling time and again. He always fails.)

Which brings him back to the present moment. Watching Jaskier play and...and _wanting._

The question is, should he let Jaskier know?

And Geralt wonders. And thinks. About whys and hows and maybes.

Maybe.

~~~~~~~

The next time, Jaskier is in the middle of stitching up a fresh wound on Geralt’s thigh. Before Jaskier, Geralt might have rubbed some salve on it, meditated a bit, and deemed it good enough. He’s suffered worse, and he’s sure he’ll suffer worse in the future, too. But Jaskier worries, and Geralt can smell the way that tending to his wounds soothes the bard, and so Geralt lets him care. It’s damn useful, at any rate.

Jaskier likes being useful. Geralt knows this. And he also knows he should tell the man more often.

It’s this thought that Geralt blames for the tug he feels in his chest, the desire to be closer. He’s not sure what he’ll do once he _gets_ closer, but he wants that. Closeness.

He makes a sort of halfhearted movement toward Jaskier, but aborts it before it has the opportunity to become more than a twitch.

Jaskier, of course, takes it completely the wrong way.

“Oh!” Jaskier freezes, needle poised in the air. “Did I hurt you, darling?” he frets. “Apologies! I’ll try to be more gentle, but this is a deep one, and I—”

“It’s fine,” Geralt grunts. “Doesn’t hurt.”

And that’s true. It doesn’t really. Well, the wound doesn’t. It’s more of the dull ache in his chest that’s the issue.

He should probably do something about that. It’s disconcerting.

Jaskier’s brow furrows, and he bites his lip as he returns to stitching.

Geralt smells chamomile and lavender, interlaced with the worry.

Before Jaskier, he simply coped. But now, with Jaskier, he heals. He’s cared for. It’s such an unusual situation to find himself in, and he still doesn’t entirely know what to do with it. But Jaskier cares about him, for sure. Not only him, of course, but out of all the people on the Continent, it’s _him_ that Jaskier has chosen to follow. To stick with.

And Geralt wonders. And thinks. About whys and hows and maybes.

Maybe.

...probably.

~~~~~~~

This time, this time is the worst, Geralt is certain.

And it’s all his fault. Again.

He knows that humans have weaker constitutions than his own. And really, it’s a damn miracle that Jaskier doesn’t get sick more often, considering how frequently they travel on the Path together. Geralt shouldn’t have kept them walking in the rain for so long, shouldn’t have let Jaskier play for coin in a crowded tavern while dripping wet, where he must have picked up any number of illnesses while his defenses were lowered.

But none of his past sniffles or coughs or whining can hold a candle to this. To this...silence.

Jaskier is pale, nearly putting the bed linens to shame. It makes the slow thud of Geralt’s heart pick up the pace, heading toward something that might be called panic, except witchers don’t panic. (Geralt is questioning this, but that’s an internal debate for another time.)

Geralt is no healer. Were it a physical wound, he’d have a chance of at least dealing with it, but with sickness, he knows he’s well out of his league. Witchers don’t get sick, and Geralt has never had the displeasure (pleasure?) of caring for someone while they’re sick. (Not just any someone, his heart tells him. Jaskier is far from just anyone.)

But he pushes that feeling aside again. It’s been rearing its head more and more frequently, lately, and Geralt knows he has to do or say something, for the sake of his own sanity if nothing else. But now isn’t the time.

Not now, when Jaskier shivers and moans in bed. Not when he’s feverish and both flushed and pale in turn. His skin burns where Geralt touches it, and Geralt doesn’t know what to do. He’s not particularly gentle, he knows. He’s made for killing, not healing. But he can’t stop himself from dragging a wet cloth down Jaskier’s face, trying to get the fever to break.

And really, there’s little he _can_ do. He’s already spent coin on a bed and a healer, and he makes sure to coax their potions down Jaskier’s throat twice a day, as instructed. He tips water down as well, when he can, the bard swallowing reflexively. But now all he can do is wait. And hold vigil.

Which he does, without complaint.

He wouldn’t dream of going looking for contracts with Jaskier in this state. No, he has to be here. Just in case...in case…

Geralt swallows. He can’t let himself start thinking this way. He’d always known their time together would be short. Humans have such brief lives, and they’re so fragile, but he’d thought it would be longer than this.

If the worst is to happen, he’ll never forgive himself for not being here when it does. He’ll remain with Jaskier until the end.

But hopefully, hopefully that isn’t now.

Jaskier’s eyelashes flutter, a butterfly’s wings against fevered cheeks, and glassy blue eyes crack open the tiniest bit.

Geralt is on his knees in a heartbeat, one trembling hand reaching for Jaskier’s own, the other turning his face toward the light so Geralt can see him better.

Dark. When had it gotten so dark? He’d nearly let the candles burn out. He should have—

“G’ralt?” Jaskier’s voice is cracked and rough, and while part of Geralt soars at hearing it again, the other part aches at the pain in it.

“I’m here, Jas,” he whispers, loud enough for the bard to hear him, but not so loud as to aggravate the headache he likely has.

Jaskier shudders and coughs weakly, fingers spasming in Geralt’s grip, and the witcher’s heart leaps into his throat.

“Not yet, Jaskier,” he pleads. “You can’t leave me, yet. Stay.”

The other man hums and nuzzles into the warm hand against his cheek. Geralt likes to think it’s intentional, not a result of fevered delusion.

“M’kay,” Jaskier whispers, and then he falls asleep again.

Geralt slumps against the bed, bringing Jaskier’s hand to his face, breathing him in. The chamomile and lavender are muted, pushed down by the smell of sickness, and it makes Geralt himself feel ill, knowing that his bard feels this way.

And Jaskier still doesn’t _know_. He doesn’t know that, somehow, he’s become Geralt’s whole world. He doesn’t know that, if he leaves the witcher now, a part of Geralt will die with him.

And if Jaskier goes without knowing, it will be all Geralt’s fault for not being able to tell him. Show him. _Anything_.

Jaskier has to wake up again. Geralt will accept no other possibility. Jaskier is the Destiny that Geralt has chosen for himself, not one forced upon him.

And he doesn’t even know.

Sighing into the too-quiet night air, Geralt presses the softest of kisses to the inside of Jaskier’s wrist. It’s barely a brush of lips, but it’s there. It’s something.

Now they both have work to do.

Geralt needs to find the words. The right ones, this time.

And Jaskier? Jaskier just needs to heal. To open his eyes again. And hopefully, if Geralt is very, very lucky, to stay by Geralt’s side until death rends them apart.

Hopefully, Jaskier will want that, too. If Geralt is good with his words. Open and honest, the way Jaskier likes him to be.

And Geralt wonders. And thinks. About whys and hows and maybes.

Probably.

Definitely.

~~~~~~~

When the fever finally breaks, no one is more pleased than Geralt.

Jaskier, for his part, is still miserable, but at least he’s no longer in danger. He shifts in the bedclothes, trying to free himself with a huff, and Geralt just unwinds him carefully.

“I’m disgusting,” the bard grumbles.

“You almost died,” Geralt growls in return. “Small price to pay for survival.”

“Still disgusting.” Jaskier flops on the bed dramatically, his eyes wide and so, so very blue.

Geralt’s heart soars to see them like this. Lucid. Almost sparkling.

And his heart jumps even more when Jaskier graces him with a small smile.

“Any chance you could call for a bath, dear witcher?”

Geralt grunts. Of course. Of course, he should have thought of that. But he can fix it now.

He rises from the chair that’s been his watchtower for the past several days and makes his way to the door before pausing with his hand on the old wood.

“Stay.” The look he gives Jaskier is pointed. Stay in bed. No getting up.

Jaskier chuckles a little. It’s still a bit thin, and he still has healing to do, but to Geralt, the sound is beautiful.

“Where would I go? I’ll be right here.”

Satisfied that Jaskier won’t do anything ridiculous like try to clean himself up while he’s gone, Geralt steps out of the room and makes his way downstairs to talk to the innkeeper.

They actually don’t seem to hate him too much here, for which Geralt is endlessly thankful. Jaskier’s work, for certain. It’s little trouble to pay for a hot bath to be brought up to their room, for two bowls of stew to arrive with it, and Geralt returns to Jaskier’s side to await both of them.

Jaskier is in a light doze, but he wakes when the tub is brought in, the clattering of the innkeep’s boys much louder than Geralt’s soft footsteps. Numerous buckets later, there’s a warm bath waiting, and Jaskier actually groans at the sight of it.

“Sweet Melitele. Have you ever seen anything so wondrous?”

Geralt gazes down at Jaskier, at the healthy coloring returning to his face, at his eyes gleaming with life, at his chest rising and falling with even breaths, and he thinks, _yes, because I have seen you._

But he keeps silent.

Instead, he hums and takes the tray of stew that’s being offered to him before nudging the door closed with his foot.

“Food or bath first?” he asks.

Jaskier’s eyes widen. “Oh. Oh, I don’t think I’d realized quite how hungry I am until this very moment. If it’s not too much trouble, I mean, you can reheat the water if it gets cold, right?”

Geralt grunts an affirmative.

“Then food it is!” Jaskier grins and makes to sit up, but Geralt isn’t about to let him do so on his own. He’s still weak, and it’s no trouble at all to raise him up gently, arranging the blankets and pillows so that Jaskier is propped up against the headboard.

He ignores Jaskier’s half-hearted, “I’m fine, you old mother hen,” and brings one bowl over, spoon already placed within the thick stew.

Geralt watches like a hawk as Jaskier raises the spoon to his lips, swallowing with a moan. His hand trembles a little, but he doesn’t drop the spoon, and so Geralt doesn’t try to feed him. He’ll let Jaskier have this.

“How long was I out?” Jaskier asks between bites.

“Three days,” Geralt murmurs, mind replaying past events. He’ll never be able to burn them away. The way he’d...the way he’d been _scared._ But Jaskier doesn’t need to know that part.

“Ugh. Sorry.” Jaskier sighs and looks down at his food, shoulders drooping.

“No.” Geralt’s hand comes up to clasp the back of Jaskier’s neck gently. “No apologies.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh. “Even though I’ve eaten into our stash of coin? I’m sure you’ve been keeping us bolstered, but still, I feel bad that—”

“I haven’t.”

“Pardon?” Jaskier blinks up at him. All Geralt can see is blue, blue, blue.

“I haven’t. Taken any contracts, I mean. I didn’t want to leave you.”

Rosy lips part, and for a moment, it’s like Jaskier doesn’t know what to say.

“Oh,” he finally manages. “Oh, well. I. Thank you.” And then he’s looking down again, and Geralt wonders if he’s said something wrong.

To cover it up, he grunts, “Finish your food,” and gets up to start tidying up potion bottles and powder sachets, the remains of Jaskier’s illness.

Jaskier tucks back into his stew, and not another word is spoken until the spoon finally scrapes the last of it from the bowl, and Jaskier leans back with a satisfied sigh.

“About that bath…” he murmurs.

Geralt nods and dunks his hand into the now-tepid water. One Igni later, it’s steaming again, and he can actually smell the eagerness rolling off Jaskier in waves. The other man casts off his blanket with gusto, and he’s about to swing his legs over the side of the bed when Geralt comes to a halt in front of him.

“Let me help,” he offers.

Jaskier just smiles. “All right.”

And together, they get Jaskier upright (more of Geralt’s strength than Jaskier’s), rid him of his smallclothes (Geralt kneels to shove them down while Jaskier focuses on remaining upright), and then Geralt doesn’t so much as ask for permission before sweeping the bard up in his arms and carrying him over to the bath.

Jaskier gasps when his feet leave the floor, but he doesn’t complain. And when Geralt settles him gently into the warm water, he lets out a groan that sounds as though it came from the very depths of his soul.

“Magnificent,” he moans, closing his eyes.

And since Jaskier’s eyes are closed, Geralt doesn’t bother to hide the pleased smile on his face as he gathers soap and oil from their packs, bringing them over to the tub.

The witcher strips down efficiently, and Jaskier doesn’t even notice until Geralt is slipping in behind him, scooting the bard forward to make room for himself.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s trying to look over his shoulder, but Geralt hums, wanting to find the words. The right words.

“Let me take care of you,” is what he settles on.

And to his surprise, Jaskier just sighs and leans back against his chest, body going lax.

“All right, then. Have at it.”

Is it really so simple? Is that all Geralt had needed to say? Can words be so uncomplicated?

He’s not sure, but he’s going to take advantage of the situation while he can.

He continues to marvel at Jaskier’s complete trust in him as he works the bit of soap over every patch of skin on the bard’s body. Jaskier is loose and pliant. He lets Geralt position him however he wishes. And when Geralt asks him to dunk his head so that he can wash the other man’s hair, Jaskier does so without hesitation.

The groan Jaskier lets out when Geralt starts working soap through his hair is nothing short of incandescent. For all the times that Jaskier has done this for him, Geralt had never returned the favor. And now he’s kicking himself for it. Because not only does Jaskier seem to be enjoying himself immensely, the act of bathing another person — Jaskier, specifically — is almost like a form of meditation in itself. The repetitive strokes, sweeping and rubbing and circling, make Geralt feel simultaneously more relaxed and also...tingly.

Isn’t that odd?

Soap finally rinsed out, Jaskier’s head lolls on his shoulders as Geralt works his fancy hair oil into the brown strands. And if Geralt’s hands start straying, petting gently down Jaskier’s neck and across his shoulders, neither man objects. Neither even mentions it.

Geralt is happy to wash away the stink of sickness. He’s happy to have Jaskier here in his arms, alive and on the mend. He’s…

...he’s _happy_.

His breath catches in surprise, and before he really thinks about it, his arms come up to wrap around Jaskier’s chest, holding him close. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat, strong and even, pounding in his chest. He can smell chamomile and lavender again. Jaskier is pleasantly warm and solid in his grasp, and he doesn’t jerk away, doesn’t try to break free from Geralt’s hold.

What he does do is bring one hand up to rest upon Geralt’s own.

“Geralt, darling? What’s wrong?”

But Geralt just shakes his head, trying to find the words again. How can he express how much this means to him? How afraid he’d been? How relieved he is now? How much _Jaskier_ means to him?

In the end, he mumbles out, “Happy.” And that seems to be enough, because Jaskier is stroking gently up and down his arm and relaxing back into him again with a sigh.

“As you should be,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry to have worried you so.”

Of course Jaskier knows. Of course he knows how worried Geralt had been. But the sheer depth of it…

“Thought I’d lose you.”

Jaskier huffs. “I’m harder to get rid of than that, my dear. You should know that, by now.”

Geralt shakes his head, but says no more. Jaskier hadn’t seen himself. He doesn’t know just how close he’d come.

They just sit in silence for a moment longer, ensconced in each other, until Geralt can stand it no longer.

Heart hammering in his chest, blood rushing in his ears, he leans forward over Jaskier’s shoulder and presses the softest of kisses to the man’s temple.

Jaskier doesn’t even flinch.

No, instead he sighs and turns a bit, straining to curl into Geralt even more. Like he understands how Geralt is feeling. What he’s thinking.

“I’m not going anywhere, Geralt,” he murmurs, nudging his head up underneath Geralt’s chin.

And maybe Jaskier understands even more than Geralt himself does, because Geralt finds himself calming. Jaskier is right where he should be, warm and content and _alive_. And this is all Geralt wants.

Surely it can’t get better than this.

But still, the words get stuck in his throat. He needs to tell Jaskier how much he means. How important he is. Geralt had almost lost him, and he won’t make the same mistake twice. Jaskier deserves to know.

And Geralt wonders. And thinks. About whys and hows and maybes.

Definitely.

Soon.

~~~~~~~

Just a few days later find them packing up to be on their way again. They’ve replenished their supplies, but between that and the coin Geralt had spent during Jaskier’s illness, they really are running dangerously low. Geralt needs to find a contract soon.

He strongly disapproves of Jaskier performing just yet, insisting that the bard needs to rest and recover still. Truly, he has half a mind to leave him in this little town, where he might be _safe_ , but then of course, Geralt’s ridiculous heart constricts and he throws that idea right out the window. Traveling the Path without Jaskier is no longer an option.

But what he can do is make the travel on the road a bit easier for the man.

As soon as Roach is tacked up and led from the stables where she’s been staying, Geralt gestures to the saddle and grunts, “Up.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “No, what I _think_ I heard was you telling me to ride your horse, but that can’t possibly be right.”

“Jaskier, you’re still recovering. Get on the horse.”

Jaskier gives him a look like he can’t quite believe this is happening, and Geralt wonders, is it really so unbelievable? Is it so novel that he might prioritize Jaskier’s comfort and needs over his own?

He needs to do better. Jaskier deserves better.

Snarling at himself, he helps Jaskier mount (he’s still a bit shaky, but neither man mentions it), and starts to lead Roach out of town.

He almost trips when he hears the quiet, “Thank you.”

Instead, he glances up, and Jaskier’s expression is so earnest, so open, and full of something that can’t be called mere gratitude.

Geralt doesn’t know what to say. So he pats Jaskier awkwardly on the knee, letting his touch linger for a moment, feeling the warmth of him.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind.

And Geralt wonders if there are other things the bard wouldn’t mind.

Geralt wonders. And thinks. About whys and hows and maybes.

Soon.

For sure.

~~~~~~~

It’s been days of traveling. Days of watching Jaskier and making sure he keeps his strength and health up. Days of that uncomfortable feeling in his chest every time Jaskier smiles or laughs or even so much as looks at him.

And Geralt is wondering, wondering, _wondering._

Isn’t it better to have a short life, a happy life, with Jaskier, than none at all? Should he just tell him how he feels and be done with it? Jaskier won’t, he _can’t_ , survive on the Path as long as Geralt will. Such is the reality of being human. But if Jaskier wants any part of him, any part at all, Geralt is wondering if he shouldn’t let the other man have it. For as long as they can both manage it.

He knows he’s bad with words, but really, this interaction is probably on his list of the top five most awkward things he’s said. Not the most awful, no. But definitely lacking in any sort of finesse.

“You’ll die someday,” is what he says, while they’re sitting by the fire one evening.

Jaskier pauses mid-bite, roasted rabbit halfway to his mouth.

“Excuse me?” he replies, blinking in complete confusion.

“If not to monsters, then to disease. If not to disease, then to time. I can’t…” Geralt breathes heavily through his nostrils. “I can’t protect you from everything, Jaskier.” He’s saying this all wrong. This conversation has gone ass-up, and it sounds like he’s accusing Jaskier of something, he knows, but that’s not what he’s trying to do at all.

But Jaskier, perceptive Jaskier, stares at him for a moment, then scoots closer, right up against Geralt’s side. His hand is warm on Geralt’s arm, and the witcher focuses on it, uses it as a way to ground himself amongst the roiling tide of emotions crashing through him.

“My dear witcher,” Jaskier starts, “everyone dies.”

Geralt chokes a little and shakes his head.

“Geralt, darling. Please look at me.”

Geralt does. It’s hard. It’s so hard. But he does.

“There we are.” Jaskier smiles at him, trails one finger down his cheek. “Is this what you’ve been brooding about, then? Oh, I wish you’d have told me. You worry far too much.”

“Jas…” Geralt pleads, begging for Jaskier to understand what he can’t say.

“Hush. Let me speak, okay?”

Geralt nods, words stopping in his throat, choked up by emotion.

“Now then. I can’t imagine myself possibly falling to a monster. Not while you’re with me. You’re the very best at protecting me, did you know that? Never have I felt as safe as I do when I’m by your side.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say, so he swallows and chokes a little more.

“As for disease, I suppose we just have to do the best we can. But you really did the most admirable job at caring for me last time. And I know you will again, if such a need arises. Like I said, I’ve never felt safer than I do when I’m with you. You’ll never let me down, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Oh, that’s a new one. Geralt blames his surprise for the fact that he doesn’t manage to object that he’s let Jaskier down in the past, and what if he does in the future? He’s so, so lacking in qualities that Jaskier deserves. He can’t give him a safe, peaceful life. His is a life full of danger and roughness and far too little peace. But before he can voice any of this, Jaskier continues.

“And as for time, well, at least that’s one we won’t have to worry about too soon, no?” He grins at Geralt, and Geralt’s brow furrows.

No, that can’t be right. It’s already been over two decades since they’ve known each other. Time is catching up rapidly, and it won’t be all that long before Jaskier can’t travel with him anymore. Before his joints ache and his body slows. Before his hair greys and his...his…

Geralt squints.

Grey.

It suddenly occurs to him, like he’s been struck by lightning, that he’s never seen a single grey hair on Jaskier’s head. And not just that. There’s not a wrinkle on his face, either. Surely there should be, after more than twenty years. But Jaskier… Jaskier looks the same as he did on that first day in Posada, fresh-faced and smiling, and Geralt’s eyes widen.

“You’re not...human,” he gasps out.

Jaskier laughs loud and long. “Melitele’s _tits_ , Geralt, did you think I was? I mean, I am mostly, I suppose, but not completely. I’ve got enough elf in me to at least give me some more time, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He looks absolutely tickled pink, and okay, Geralt really should have noticed something before now, but all he can focus on is the sudden roaring in his ears and the way that his heart is leaping in his chest.

He reaches up with a shaking hand, like he can’t believe this is real, that _Jaskier_ is real. And Jaskier, always knowing what Geralt needs even before he himself does, laces their fingers together and presses the back of Geralt’s hand to his cheek.

“I told you, you can’t get rid of me that easily, you great idiot.”

“You’re not,” Geralt gulps, fighting back something, some kind of feeling that is trying to crawl out of him and make itself known, “You won’t leave.”

“No, my dear.” Jaskier’s voice is gentle and fond. “No, I expect to have many, many more years by your side, if you’ll have me.”

And then that something inside Geralt roars to life, and he reaches out with his other arm and clutches Jaskier close. They both drop their food on the ground, but Geralt really, really has more important things to be thinking about right now. Namely, how he’s supposed to even process this. He wraps himself around Jaskier as much as he can, holding him tightly. He might be trembling. Is he trembling? He doesn’t know. But Jaskier is making soft shushing sounds and nuzzling against him, and part of Geralt thinks that now, now is the time when he should say everything that he thinks and feels.

But he can’t. Not with his throat choking up. Not with the way he doesn’t know if he wants to sob in relief or scream in joy.

So he simply sits and holds his bard close, as close as he can.

And Geralt wonders. And thinks. About whys and hows and maybes.

For sure.

Next time, for sure.

~~~~~~~

The day it finally happens is a day like any other. Nothing special is going on. They’re simply traveling as they usually do. Geralt is cleaning up the campsite while Jaskier finger combs Roach’s mane, murmuring gentle nonsense to her the way he does.

And maybe it’s the way the sunlight hits his hair. Maybe it’s the smell of the breeze that carries a hint of chamomile and lavender. Maybe it’s just Jaskier, being wholly and uncompromisingly himself. Geralt doesn’t know.

But what he does know, is that now, now is the time.

He drops their packs where he stands. There are far more important matters to attend to.

Jaskier looks up when he hears the thump of their belongings hitting the ground, and he tilts his head as Geralt strides purposefully toward him, confused and intrigued.

But now that Geralt is here, in front of him, the words won’t come. His tongue is tying itself up again, and Geralt is so _frustrated_ because it really shouldn’t be this difficult and why can’t he just _say_ it?

“Geralt?” Jaskier prompts.

So Geralt decides to show him.

Moving slowly, so that Jaskier can pull away at any time, he reaches up with both hands and places one palm on either side of Jaskier’s face, thumbs brushing Jaskier’s cheekbones. Jaskier doesn’t pull away though. No, instead he lays one hand on Geralt’s forearm, looking at him with a question in his eyes.

Geralt answers it by leaning in and pressing his lips gently to Jaskier’s forehead.

Jaskier gasps. His lips part.

He doesn’t object.

The writhing, coiling feeling in Geralt’s gut is urging him to keep going. To move. To show.

And so he tilts Jaskier’s head again, brushes his lips next to his own thumb, along Jaskier’s cheek.

Jaskier inhales sharply. But he still doesn’t object. Instead, Geralt can hear his heartbeat pick up. Excited.

Good.

Emboldened, Geralt tilts Jaskier’s head the opposite direction, and this time, his mouth meets the pulse thrumming in Jaskier’s throat.

Jaskier moans at that, and his hand clutches desperately at Geralt’s arm. He’s trembling in Geralt’s hold, nearly vibrating. But it’s not from fear. Not at all.

And then Geralt pulls back a bit. Meets Jaskier’s gaze.

Jaskier licks his lips. “Come on, then,” he coaxes, a smile playing over his face.

And what else can Geralt do but lean in? Closer.

Closer.

Their lips touch. Geralt’s eyes close, and he just _feels._

This lasts for all of a moment before Jaskier is gasping into his mouth and throwing both arms around Geralt’s neck, striving to get even closer somehow, as though that were possible. Jaskier licks at him, bites at him, and Geralt growls and _devours_ him, lips parting only for the barest of breaths before they both dive back in.

It’s utterly divine, in a way that Geralt hadn’t known was possible. He’s never experienced a kiss like this before, one that makes his blood sing with ecstasy. From only a kiss.

They break apart again, and Jaskier groans, fingers digging into Geralt’s back, and he looks slightly dazed, but happy.

Geralt wants to tell him then. How much he means. How much he’s worth. How much he deserves. How much Geralt needs him. How much Geralt cares for him. How much better Geralt’s life is for having Jaskier in it.

What he says is, “I love you.”

Jaskier sobs once before biting his lip, like he’s trying to keep the sounds inside, but that won’t do at all. Geralt needs to hear him.

“Jas, talk to me. Is this okay?”

Jaskier gives an odd little hiccup before bursting into tears and burying his face against Geralt’s neck. But he doesn’t smell sad or angry at all. Not even close.

He smells like joy.

“Is it okay? _Okay?_ Gods, you stupid, beautiful, wonderful man.” Jaskier thumps Geralt on the back, but there’s no malice behind it. “Do you have any idea— No, of course you don’t. You’ve been wrapped up in your own head this whole time, haven’t you? Overthinking everything.”

Geralt grunts, because well, Jaskier isn’t wrong, exactly.

“I’ve been in love with you for _ages_ , you great idiot,” Jaskier continues, with what Geralt now recognizes are happy tears pouring from his eyes. “I didn’t know you were...similarly inclined.” He gives a watery smile. “If I’d had even an inkling, I’d have said something, but no, you sweep in here like the hero you are and carry me off my feet like it’s no big deal. And what do I even do now, Geralt? What do I say?”

Geralt shifts. “You...love me?” he tries.

“Of course I do! I love you more than...more than the coast. More than a new song or the applause of a crowd. More than sinking into a hot bath after a hard day. More than, more than… Geralt, you are my sun, my moon, and my stars. You’re the reason I wake up every morning, and you’re the siren that calls to me in my dreams at night. If I had my way, I’d never be separated from you. When we’re apart, I count the days until I can see you again. Gods, and I try to make it seem casual and incidental, but you must know by now that it’s anything but. You’re my world, Geralt. If you remember nothing else that I’ve said, remember that.”

Geralt is blinking. Stunned. He could have had this, had Jaskier, this whole time?

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me. This winter,” is his reply.

Jaskier’s kiss-bitten lips part. “Your witcher fortress? Your...your home?”

“I don’t want to be parted from you either, Jaskier. Even for a season. Not now that I know I can have you.”

Jaskier’s smile is sunshine. “Anytime. Anywhere. In any capacity that you want me. I have been yours for a long time, darling. I’m just so glad you know, now.”

“I tried,” Geralt starts. “I tried to tell you. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier presses a kiss to his mouth to quiet him. “No more apologies. You’ve nothing to be sorry for. We’re here now, and that’s what matters, wouldn’t you say? After all this time, we’re finally here.”

Geralt still has more he wants to say. More he wants to do. But they have the rest of their lives to get to that.

And for the first time, Geralt doesn’t have to wonder. Doesn’t have to think. About whys and hows and maybes.

He’s sure.

Absolutely.


End file.
